


Silent Night

by brinnanza



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, First Time, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2014-12-23
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829659
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brinnanza/pseuds/brinnanza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But they’ve defeated the Replicators, mostly allied with the Genii, and the Wraith are spending more and more of their time fighting each other, and so now there’s a lot less desperate scrambling. There is time now for proper holidays, or so says the state of the labs when McKay enters on the afternoon of what, on Atlantis, is roughly December 37th.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Silent Night

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [Noite Silenciosa](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6940537) by [Rosetta (Melime)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melime/pseuds/Rosetta)



> Merry Christmas, y'all. (And thanks to Clotpoleofthelord for the beta!)

Atlantis has never really had time for Christmas. Wraith, Replicators, the Genii, and faulty Ancient Technology usually keep them pretty busy, and when they do have time to celebrate, they’re usually celebrating the fact that they’re still alive (and remembering those who aren’t). There are probably people who have been celebrating the holidays all along, in snatches of time here and there between crises, but they’re an international contingent of people with varying religions and orthodoxies and there’s a pretty severe time difference. To most of them, Earth’s December 25th is just another day (and part of the next--New New Lantea has 22 hour days, which is just unfair and makes following the SGC’s schedule next to impossible).

But they’ve defeated the Replicators, mostly allied with the Genii, and the Wraith are spending more and more of their time fighting each other, and so now there’s a lot less desperate scrambling. There is time now for proper holidays, or so says the state of the labs when McKay enters on the afternoon of what, on Atlantis, is roughly December 37th.

Someone has pushed all the lab tables against the walls and strung up what looks like tinsel everywhere. McKay’s not sure where his minions even _got_ tinsel in the Pegasus galaxy, but it’s draped on the tables, tacked to the walls, and wound around an actual pine tree (well, the Pegasus equivalent of pine anyway). There are a couple of computers gathered on one of the tables playing music that McKay doesn’t recognize, something vaguely melodic with too much bass.

The scientists themselves are milling around, chatting, drinking, and perusing what looks like a buffet table. When the door whooshes shut behind McKay, they all turn and stare at him.

“What the hell is this?” McKay demands. He’s not necessarily against a party--one he’s been properly notified of and has approved--but surely there are more important things they could be doing. There’s always routine maintenance, and if they’re still lacking work to do, McKay can always assign some of them to sanitation duty.

Zelenka steps forward, holding what looks like an Erlenmeyer flask filled with pale purple liquid. Instead of answering McKay’s (very reasonable) question, he says, “Aren’t you supposed to be offworld?”

McKay frowns. “Torren has some flu thing, so Teyla stayed home with him, and Woolsey scrubbed the mission.” He narrows his eyes at Zelenka. “This is your doing, isn’t it? Not only did you throw a party without my knowledge or permission, you threw a party you had no intention of inviting me to!”

Zelenka shrugs, and McKay determines from his calm expression in the face of McKay’s irritation that he’s probably already consumed quite a lot of what is almost certainly not lavender tea. Zelenka takes a sip from his flask (and really, did lab safety mean nothing to the man?) the says, “It was sort of a last minute thing.”

“There’s a buffet table!”

“Snack stashes. And leftovers from lunch.”

“And a tree!”

“Very last minute tree. Botany sample.”

McKay doesn’t believe him at all, but he just rolls his eyes at Zelenka and says, “Whatever you say, Radek.” He starts to wander over the buffet table.

Zelenka eyes him warily. “Don’t you have simulations to run in the ancillary labs?”

McKay recognizes a brush off when he sees it, and for a moment, it really stings. He was almost starting to consider thinking of some of these people as friends--even Zelenka. But then he remembers that A, he hates Christmas; B, he barely tolerates most of these people enough to work with them, much less socialize with them; and C, he is technically their boss and maybe even his minions deserve a little time away from their boss. Even though, when it comes to their personal time, McKay is pretty lax, mostly because he doesn’t care about their personal lives as long as it doesn’t affect their work.

Still, he’s here now, and it’s his lab, and also there’s food. He gives Zelenka a blank look and turns away from him. He gets a couple more nervous glances from some of the newer scientists, but he ignores them.

 

At some point, McKay gets ahold of some of Zelenka’s purple moonshine (in an _actual cup_ ; who knows what the chemists put in those flasks), and in fairly short order, his opinion on secret Christmas parties has faded from loathing to, well, not quite fondness, but acceptance anyway.

He wouldn’t say he’s drunk, exactly. A little tipsy, maybe--his tolerance for alcohol is still pretty high after his time in Siberia, but he’s had a few drinks (Radek’s rot gut is almost palatable when mixed with that sweet Athosian fruit juice that Teyla has assured him a hundred times does not contain anything like citrus). He could probably still walk a straight line or recite pi to a hundred digits, but everything is just a little softer, like life with the volume turned down.

He’s tripping over his tongue a little less than usual, so he thinks he might actually be making headway with the absolutely stunning Dr. Rosario Juarez, a leggy brunette geologist who was part of the most recent personnel deployment and has apparently not heard the horror stories of McKay’s past experiences with women.

She does, however, appear to wear a permanent scowl. McKay is pretty sure it’s not his fault as she was scowling before he approached her, and it’s not like it’s anywhere near a patented Rodney McKay scowl anyway. McKay’s scowls have caused spontaneous staff resignations and once actually caused a flower to die right in front of him. (It may have been a coincidence since a nearby piece of Ancient tech was emitting seriously weird radiation at the time, but McKay is pretty sure it was the sole power of his displeasure.)

McKay is currently trying to keep his flower-killing scowl off of his face as he pretends to be listening to Dr. Juarez talk about sediment deposits on the mainland. It’s about as interesting as listening to Sheppard talk about football plays or golf statistics (honestly, why can’t the man follow a nice Canadian sport?), which is to say he’d rather spend a week in a Wraith cocoon. But Juarez’s legs go on for days and if he’s not mistaken, her face is getting a little less scowly the more she talks. (The drink in her hand is probably not hurting either.)

He’s just gathering the nerve to ask her if maybe she wants to take this somewhere a little more private when Lt. Colonel Cock Block pops up next to him, drink in hand, and says, “Hiya, Rodney!” He flashes Juarez what McKay thinks of as his “Charm and Disarm” smile, extends a hand, and says, “Lt. Colonel John Sheppard, military commander of Atlantis. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

McKay briefly considers strangling Sheppard, or maybe yanking him into a quiet corner and shooting him. He reconsiders when he remembers that Sheppard is both stronger and better trained than he is. McKay would have to sneak up on him, but Sheppard’s reflexes are pretty good too. McKay gives in and lets the scowl work its way onto his face. The _desire_ to kill him remains, even if the intent fades under the scrutiny of practicality.

Juarez gives McKay a sideways glance, then shakes Sheppard’s hand and introduces herself. She does not seem to be charmed or disarmed, which is something at least. In fact, any progress McKay might have made toward dissipating her grumpy expression evaporates and she mostly looks uncomfortable. “Um, excuse me,” she says, and heads for a knot of botanists on the other side of the room.

McKay glares at Sheppard. “What the hell?”

“Relax, McKay,” says Sheppard breezily. He takes a swig from his cup (which is a lab beaker; honestly, did safety protocols mean nothing to anyone?), then says, “She wasn’t going to sleep with you.”

“You don’t know that!” hisses McKay, making an effort to keep his voice out of earshot of Juarez. The alcohol messes with his volume control, so he doesn’t know how successful he is. “She was barely even scowling when you showed up.”

“That’s because you listening to her talk about rocks. You should see your face when someone lets you talk about astrophysics.”

McKay distinctly recalls Sheppard doing exactly that on several occasions and makes a face. “Well that seemed to be working just fine!”

Sheppard rolls his eyes. “She’s gay, Rodney.”

That stops McKay short. “What--how--I thought you weren’t supposed to know about that! No asking or telling! And you said you never met her!”

“She’s not American and she’s not military, so it doesn’t matter what I know.” Sheppard shrugs. “And I hadn’t met her, but she’s not exactly hiding it.”

“There is no way your gaydar is better than mine,” protests McKay. In point of fact, Sheppard’s gaydar is terrible. It has to be, or he would have pegged McKay on the not-exactly-straight spectrum years ago; at least one of the blonde scientists he has mentioned sleeping with while stationed in Russia was a guy. Yeah, McKay has gotten pretty good at toeing the straight and narrow, as it were, after almost two decades of working for the US government and military, neither of which are particularly known for their tolerance to “alternative lifestyles,” but still. 

“See for yourself,” Sheppard says, expression nonchalant, and gestures to where Juarez is chatting with a pretty Russian zoologist, not a trace of scowl on her face. The same is not true of McKay, whose scowl has intensified. Sheppard just slings an arm around his shoulders and pulls him in the direction of the buffet table.

McKay is mad at him for trying to distract him with food for about a second and a half before he actually is distracted by the food. He loads a plate, tips a little more purple hooch into his glass, and follows Sheppard to a somewhat out-of-the-way corner. Sheppard hops up to sit atop a lab table and McKay stands beside him.

“What are you even doing here?” McKay asks once they’re settled. “This is a science party. A secret science party.”

“I was looking for you,” says Sheppard. “Your radio’s off, but I figured you’d be here.”

“And Zelenka let you stay?”

“Yeah, why wouldn’t he?”

“Uh, because you’re not a scientist?” Sheppard just shrugs again and McKay sniffs. “He almost kicked me out, and it’s my lab! Do you know they planned this whole thing for when I was gonna be offworld?”

“Zelenka said it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

McKay give Sheppard a blank look. “If you believe that, I don’t have high hopes for your future on this expedition.”

Sheppard bumps his shoulder, and they snack and drink in companionable silence. After a little while, Sheppard asks, “How do you think the social committee convinced Zelenka to give up his still for the occasion?” He swirls the booze around his beaker (despite the abundance of proper glasses that have not previously held mysterious chemicals).

McKay, who is pretty convinced Zelenka _is_ the social committee, snorts and says, “I’m sure he just bartered some of the stock he’s been hoarding for a month of maintenance shifts.”

Sheppard smirks. “Gotta love a free market.”

“Hey, capitalism _is_ the Christmas spirit.”

“Not a fan of the holidays, huh?”

McKay just shrugs. He’s never really been into Christmas. He’s got the usual reasons, commercialism, unnecessary sentimentality, and derision for religion in general, but it’s not _just_ that. 

He feels like he should love it. Growing up, it was the only time of year his parents made even a token effort to act like they liked each other. Jeannie always loved it for exactly that reason--for a little while, once a year, she could pretend they were one big happy family.

McKay’s imagination always ran more toward theoretical physics than theoretical emotions, so he never got into it the way Jeannie did. It was nice, he guessed, getting a break from all the fighting, but he was always waiting for the other shoe to drop, a smile to break, tempers to snap. It just felt fake, and even as a kid, McKay didn’t have the patience for insincerity.

He’s not sure he wants to burden Sheppard with all that though (he doesn’t really care much for thinking about it), so he just says, “It’s complicated,” and takes a sip of his drink.

Sheppard seems to accept that. McKay thinks he’s probably had way more to drink than it appears because Sheppard offers, “Yeah, it’s not really my thing either.” 

McKay is sure Sheppard had perfect Norman Rockwell Christmases growing up, huge tree and presents and matching pajamas and all, but from the little he’s mentioned about his family and the somber expression he’s wearing, McKay can guess that his childhood holidays were about as cheerful and pleasant as his own.

They lapse into silence again, drinking and watching the other partygoers (the ones who were _invited_ , McKay thinks unkindly) chat and drink. A _very_ drunk Simpson attempts to get McNabb to dance with her, which is a great couple of minutes until Dr. Lindsay intervenes and apparently convinces Simpson she’s had enough. McKay’s not sure anthropologists count as scientists, but apparently Zelenka’s willing to let anyone who isn’t McKay in.

Anyway, standing here and people watching with Sheppard is nice. With anyone else, the lack of conversation would be awkward--McKay has never been great with chit chat--but with Sheppard, it’s always comfortable. It’s one of the great things about their friendship. Sure, they argue and rib each other and they do get pretty mad at each other sometimes, but they always get past it. At the end of the day, McKay just likes being around Sheppard, whether they’re playing chess, having lunch, or running for their lives. 

He’s never had a friendship like this before, and for a long time, McKay was terrified of screwing it up and pushing Sheppard away. McKay knows he’s an asshole and that he gets so involved in his work that he tends not to have time for other people. Plus he just genuinely doesn’t like most people, so that doesn’t really help him make friends.

It’s easy with Sheppard though, in a way McKay has never been able to replicate with anyone else. He always feels like he has something to prove, something that’s too much or not enough. He loved Katie and Jennifer, he really did, but things with them took so much effort--like he had to remember to pencil them into his (admittedly very busy) schedule and remember to be someone different, someone polite and considerate who doesn’t just say the first insulting thing that comes to mind. Sheppard likes him the way he is though, rude and irascible and brilliant.

He thinks Sheppard is the best relationship he’s ever had, and then he feels like an _idiot_.

He almost drops his glass in the sudden shock, so he sets it down on the table behind him. He’s just an _absolute moron_. Honestly, he wonders how it’s possible for someone so smart to be so _stupid_ or indeed how he manages to gather the intelligence to draw breath. He’s been so ignorant--if one of his minions missed something this blindingly obvious, he would fire them on the spot.

The last six years of his life suddenly make a lot more sense. The last days when he had that parasite are pretty fuzzy, but McKay’s seen the recording, and he knows he forgot his sister and his name and _pi_ , but he never forgot Sheppard. He thinks about all the casual evenings they’ve spent together, all the time he’s camped out in the infirmary, a tight band of anxiety around his chest, waiting for Sheppard to wake up from whatever injury he’s given himself that week.

He thinks about all the times Sheppard’s dragged him out of the lab for food or sleep, all the times he’s brought McKay an extra pudding cup. All the deeply uncomfortable faces he made and tried to hide when McKay tried to talk about his plans to propose to Katie and Jennifer.

He’s suddenly annoyed with Sheppard--McKay didn’t actually _know_ he was in love with his best friend, so what’s Sheppard’s excuse? Sure, McKay has been pretty vocal about his attraction to and relationships with women, but Christ, he works for the American military. Sheppard’s been so obvious about it, and yeah, McKay’s pretty irritated with himself for missing all the signs, but Sheppard should know better. He knows McKay better than anyone else in the universe probably; he knows how McKay needs stuff like this spelled out.

And there, of course, is the rub. Sheppard would rather do his _paperwork_ (and Lorne’s and everyone else’s too) than talk about his feelings. McKay doesn’t know if Sheppard was just waiting for McKay to notice or if he just has a martyr complex (or both), but they could have been having sex for _six years_.

Maybe Sheppard did have a good reason for keeping it to himself besides dedication to stoicism, but McKay doesn’t care. It’s _Christmas_ for Christ’s sake, and he’s not in the mood to talk around Sheppard’s delicate military facade or the idiotic Uniform Codes when they’re in an entirely different galaxy than the United States of Assbackwardsness. He turns to Sheppard and is about to demand immediate recourse for the last six years of not getting laid (with an eye roll for good measure) when he spots it.

Mistletoe.

McKay hates mistletoe. He’s not keen on the forced intimacy, usually with strangers (and rarely hot ones) or public displays; plus, he has some bad memories involving an ex-girlfriend and the knowledge that, while rare, mistletoe allergies do exist and come with a very itchy rash if it touches delicate skin. McKay usually yells and throws things at anyone thinking of engaging in base sentimentality involving mistletoe, but McKay has just had a rather major epiphany, so he snaps.

He reaches over, grabs Sheppard’s lapel, and hauls him in for a kiss.

He pulls a little too hard, so it sort of hurts and their teeth clack together and Sheppard pulls back almost immediately, but for a moment, it’s great.

Sheppard rears back and yanks himself out of McKay’s grasp. He makes a strangled sound of panic and his eyes go really wide. “What the hell, McKay? Do you want to get me court martialed?”

McKay rolls his eyes. “A, we’re approximately three million light years from Earth and B, it’s just scientists in here--well mostly,” he concedes with a significant glance at a couple linguists, “all of whom signed NDAs thicker than my apparently very thick skull. I think they can keep a secret. I mean for some of them, that might be _all_ they can do…” he trails off and shrugs.

Sheppard continues to boggle for a moment, and then he closes his mouth. “But--” he starts in his usual laconic way. “You--”

If McKay has to roll his eyes anymore tonight, he is going to sprain one of them. “You could have said something, you moron,” he says matter-of-factly. “And I love you, you idiot.”

Sheppard blushes spectacularly and ducks his head. He rubs a hand over the back of his neck. “Rodney, I…” He gestures helplessly around the room at the scientists who are trying desperately to hide their blatant eavesdropping.

McKay glares at them, and most of them sheepishly return to their own conversations. “It’s okay,” he says to Sheppard. “You don’t have to say it. I know you do too--love me, I mean.”

Sheppard is visibly relieved. He glances warily around the room again, takes a deep breath, then leans over and kisses McKay on the mouth. It’s quick--really more of a peck--but McKay recognizes it for the gesture of trust that it is. He grins at Sheppard, and Sheppard smiles back at him, still a little cautious because of the company, but it’s a real one that reaches his eyes, none of that fake “charm the natives” crap.

They stand there in the middle of a crowded party, grinning at each other like loons, and McKay feels a rush of affection that threatens to bubble up as laughter. He suddenly wants to start making up for lost time _right now_ with no regard to anyone else in the room, but if McKay’s not into public displays, Sheppard absolutely despises them. 

Instead, he tries for a significant eyebrow waggle and says, “You wanna get out of here?”

Sheppard looks hesitant but interested. “If we leave, everyone’s going to know exactly what we’re doing.”

“So?”

Sheppard gives him a look, and McKay glances around the room, gauging how much he cares if they know (not at all, he decides firmly). His gaze lands on Zelenka, who catches his eye and says, “Most of us think you have been doing it for years. Chuck has a pool going. I think Sgt. Mehra had this week.”

Sheppard and McKay both stare at him.

Zelenka just shrugs and returns to his conversation with Miko.

Sheppard does an impressive imitation of a water-starved goldfish; McKay guesses the obviousness of this thing between them is news to him too. McKay knows he’s bad with people, tends to miss some of the more subtle social cues (and, if he’s being honest, some of the not-so-subtle ones as well), but if even Sheppard’s military meatheads had noticed….

McKay makes the effort to pull his brain back online. “Soooo?” he prompts Sheppard. “You, me, less of the clothes, more of the--” he gestures between them.

Sheppard face goes a lot redder and he eyes dart around the room again (everyone is probably still listening, but at least they’re being surreptitious about it now), but then his mouth breaks into another wide grin and he says, “Yeah, alright.”

“Excellent,” says McKay cheerfully, and then he grabs Sheppard by the sleeve and practically drags him out the door.

 

McKay manages to keep his hands to himself until they get to his quarters (there are probably patrols and people out, and not everyone is as enlightened as McKay’s science minions), but it’s a close thing. As soon as they’re through the door, McKay pushes Sheppard up against the wall and kisses the hell out of him (hey, he’s got six years to make up for). He’s not interested in talking or taking it slow--there will be time for that later; all he cares about now is getting Sheppard out of his pants as soon as humanly possible.

Fortunately, it seems Sheppard is on board. He gets a knee between McKay’s legs and pulls him in close so they’re flush against each other. A shiver runs down McKay’s spine, and he shoves a hand into Sheppard’s hair.

After a few minutes, McKay decides that wow, yes, Sheppard is excellent with his mouth (he trails little nibbling kisses down McKay’s neck and he can’t help but gasp), but there are other parts of him that could use some attention and some parts of Sheppard that he would definitely like to pay attention to himself.

He pulls back enough to yank at the bottom of Sheppard’s t-shirt, but Sheppard stops him. “Wait, Rodney, are you sure about this?”

“Absolutely,” says McKay, and he bats Sheppard’s hand out of the way.

Sheppard lets him, but says, “Ten minutes ago you were trying to sleep with someone else.”

“That was before I realized,” McKay says impatiently. “But it’s you, okay? It’s just you.” He leans forward to press his forehead against Sheppard’s.

Sheppard cups the back of his head and kisses him, hot and hard, then releases him and skims his shirt off and over his head. “You know what you’re doing, McKay?” he asks with a smirk.

“Guh,” says McKay articulately, distracted by the sight of a shirtless Sheppard. It’s not like he’s never seen Sheppard without a shirt before--between the overnight missions and various radiation-related crises involving emergency showers, they have actually seen each other undressed on several occasions. But context, as they say, is everything. Catching a glance of a colleague-slash-friend’s bare chest is one thing, but this, well… There’s no need to avert his eyes and pretend like he doesn’t think Sheppard is ridiculously attractive.

Then Sheppard toes off his boots and steps out of his pants, and McKay’s brain goes offline entirely.

Sheppard laughs, his face open and honest, and surges forward to kiss McKay and divest him of the clothes he’s apparently forgotten how to remove himself.

Belatedly, McKay’s brain processes the question and he pulls his mouth away from Sheppard’s long enough to say, “Yes, I know what I’m doing. This is not my first gay rodeo, Sheppard.”

“Good to hear,” says Sheppard, and he pushes McKay down onto the bed. Sheppard rolls half on top of him and they kiss desperately, hands roving and grabbing and holding. McKay thinks he could do this forever, just making out and touching, except he thinks he’s barely going to last thirty more seconds, much less forever. Yeah, he’s done it with guys before, but not like _this_. It had been impersonal, not a whole lot more than just getting each other off. But this, here with Sheppard… He’s just as invested in hearing every little gasp and moan that escapes Sheppard’s throat as he is in feeling as much of Sheppard’s skin on his as possible.

He pulls Sheppard all the way on top of him and everything lines up just right. “Oh _fuck_ ,” McKay groans and shoves his hips up into Sheppard’s. Sheppard shoves back for a moment, then he pulls his mouth away from where he’s biting at McKay’s pulse point and gets a mischievous glint in his eyes.

Before McKay can react, Sheppard has slithered down McKay’s body and swallowed him down. It’s so good, hot and tight, and McKay is a little surprised he doesn’t come immediately.

“You’ve done this before,” he manages to accuse.

Sheppard pulls off and grins at him. “Not my first ‘gay rodeo’ either,” he says, the finger quotes implied. Then he ducks his head and resumes, too slow and too soft to finish, but amazing all the same. Sheppard has not just done this before, he’s done it enough to get _really, really good_ at it.

“ _John_ ,” McKay groans when he can’t take anymore. “ _Please_.”

Sheppard looks up at him through his lashes, his cheeks hollowed, and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. Sheppard speeds up, his eyes still locked on McKay’s, and his whole world shrinks to a pinpoint, just Sheppard’s mouth on him and Sheppard’s eyes on his. McKay can’t help thrusting his hips up just a little to meet Sheppard’s mouth on every stroke. Sheppard holds him still, and the pressure of Sheppard’s hand, warm, and strong, combined with his mouth is enough to tip McKay over the edge.

Sheppard swallows (and okay, maybe _that’s_ the hottest thing McKay’s ever seen) then moves back up next to McKay, his continued interest in the situation making itself known against McKay’s thigh. McKay shoves away the fuzzy, sleepy feeling that usually accompanies a really good orgasm as Sheppard rolls back on top of him. He rubs off against McKay’s hip as McKay gives him lazy, open-mouthed kisses on his mouth, his neck, his chest. It doesn’t take long before Sheppard’s thrusts get jerky and then he collapses down onto McKay, breathing heavily.

McKay gives him a moment and then pushes him off so they both lie on their backs, side by side and touching where their arms and legs meet. McKay has enough presence of mind to reach over the side of the bed, snag the first piece of clothing he feels, and wipe himself off. They lie there and drowse, listening to each other breathe and enjoying the sleepy, satisfied post-sex feeling.

McKay has just reached the point where he needs to either get up or fall asleep when he feels the mattress dip as Sheppard rolls up onto his side to face him. McKay rolls over too, and their eyes meet.

McKay thinks he should say something, tell Sheppard how good it was, but he can’t think of a way to phrase it that won’t seem trite or lame. It must show on his face because Sheppard quirks a questioning eyebrow at him.

He wants to tell Sheppard he’s sorry for not noticing before. That he sees now, he gets it, and this wasn’t some… drunken one-night stand because he sucks at picking up women. That he’s not sure where this will go because they both have the emotional maturity of twelve-year-olds and they’re both stubborn assholes, but whatever it is, McKay’s willing to see it through.

But he looks over at Sheppard, whose face is more relaxed than McKay has ever seen it. He gives McKay a soft smile, and his eyes crinkle a little at the corners. McKay can’t help leaning over and pressing a kiss to Sheppard’s mouth.

He thinks maybe he doesn’t need words after all.

 

End


End file.
